Page 29 - the-picture-of-dorian-gray

Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He
could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was
standing by him. His romantic olive-colored face and worn
expression interested him. There was something in his low,
languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool,
white, flower-like hands, even, had a curious charm. They
moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a lan-
guage of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed
of being afraid. Why had it been left for a stranger to reveal
him to himself? He had known Basil Hallward for months,
but the friendship between then had never altered him. Sud-
denly there had come some one across his life who seemed
to have disclosed to him life’s mystery. And, yet, what was
there to be afraid of? He was not a school-boy, or a girl. It
was absurd to be frightened.
‘Let us go and sit in the shade,’ said Lord Henry. ‘Park-
er has brought out the drinks, and if you stay any longer
in this glare you will be quite spoiled, and Basil will never
paint you again. You really must not let yourself become
sunburnt. It would be very unbecoming to you.’
‘What does it matter?’ cried Dorian, laughing, as he sat
down on the seat at the end of the garden.
‘It should matter everything to you, Mr. Gray.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you have now the most marvellous youth, and
youth is the one thing worth having.’
‘I don’t feel that, Lord Henry.’
‘No, you don’t feel it now. Some day, when you are old
and wrinkled and ugly, when thought has seared your fore-

The Picture of Dorian Gray